This twists as it runs
through my hands —
and a coiled energy
gathers there
and waits:
Either time
will wear it down
into something less vivid,
or we will take up
these instruments —
pen, paper,
wood, string —
to release it again.

And I tell him,
this is how
it’s to be done.
With careful choice
and slow advance,
allowing it to be
the fitful and frightened
thing that it is.
You may not
force it to your will.
You must bend with it,
acknowledging
what builds within.

Because I do not follow
the expectations
of all the worldly wives,
you think me blind
or indifferent.
And you are wrong.

Every detail
sharply defined
casts a brilliance
that blurs with motion
in the sun.
And there is no call
for my interference,
for my judgement,
for my disapproval
or denial.

He makes his home —
cherished and reviled —
and we fill it
shallow and deep
with living.
He worships
at the altar
in the curve of my hip,
and so
this is how we go on —
reveling in the wondrous
foolishness of us all.

Let go what will go.
Hold what is constant.
And I’ll keep trying
to be the better man.

Carry it down deep.
Seven days of exposure
wreak such havoc,
and this retreat
is a chance
to take the measure
of these changes.
The ice has almost gone.
A mute swan rides the edge,
and the bluebirds
are staking out
their nesting grounds.

It progresses
when our backs are turned,
and we search anew
for what is safe to touch.
My uncrossed arms
invite the world to nest here,
and I am surprised to find
it does not diminish me.
This alluvial movement
only leaves more sediment —
rich and dark —
a place for seeds.

And in seven days,
there is more to be held
than you might think.
His changes are disarming,
but still,
adaptation is slow.
Wait for the settling,
for the new to rub off.

It’s a puzzle,
and I examine and rearrange
the pieces,
working out
how these shapes
might fit together
again,
knowing all along
that it’s nothing
we can’t solve
with a little fooling around.

I am trying to be careful.
The current’s too strong
to push against.
Once we walked
a rain-street city,
and I stood alone
at the rail
to observe
the tense and writhing waves —
oblivious
but for this presence,
and an irresistible
aggression that rides
just below the surface.

And I still don’t know
what happened with that boy —
there were no words,
there were no hands,
and yet —
and yet —
somehow he
was transgression,
an arresting moment.

So you see
what it does —
the smallest thought
of even the possibility
of kisses stolen in reverse.

And you think I don’t know.
And you think I don’t see.
But it’s just different.
I have no fear
of these immutable laws,
and know there is no way
to avoid the traps
of our biology.
None of her kisses
can reach me
to hurt.
And I know
how he is terrified
of falling,
but loves to confess.